Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

Braenhall city, war council chamber

The war table is heavy with maps and scattered intelligence scrolls, its surface lit by dim, flickering lanternlight. A breeze whispers through the open windows—cool, dry air carrying with it the faint scent of ash. Braenhall is theirs now. But there is no celebration here.

Gander sits at the far end of the room, his pale fingers stained with ink as he slowly etches a sigil onto a parchment with a bone-quill. Across from him, Gorath leans against the wall like a boulder given breath—his ten-meter frame crouched unnaturally just to fit into the stone chamber, one elbow propped lazily on a reinforced support beam that creaks under the weight.

Varkas paces near the window, wolfish eyes sharp in the dim light, arms crossed over his broad chest. His claws twitch occasionally, betraying the restlessness in his frame. The air is thick with tension, like all of them are waiting for the sky to break open.

Lysaria lounges with ease in a high-backed chair, one leg crossed over the other, her glowing eyes half-lidded but alert.

Only one seat remains empty.

A shadow flickers.

Then—without warning—Vaelith steps out of nothing, emerging from the dim corner of the chamber like he’d always been there. His body coalesces from darkness itself, his cloak of living shade rustling with unnatural movement.

”Let us hear what you gather.” Gander says immediately, not looking up from his sigil.

Vaelith inclines his head, his voice smooth and quiet, with just the faintest rasp. ”Just as His Majesty said. Two Tier 6 monsters arrived at Valgros. They didn’t even bother to hide their presence. Their auras swept through the capital like a storm. Everyone felt it.”

Gorath shifts slightly. ”Did you see them?”

Vaelith nods. ”I did.”

He steps forward, stopping at the edge of the table. ”The first monster name Medoran. He arrived wearing armor of crimson steel veined with ember. It pulses like molten blood, alive with fire. His hair is like charred flame, and he wears a helm shaped like some ancient beast. His presence is… oppressive. The very air buckles around him with heat.”

”Fire user?” Lysaria muses. ”I love fighting fire user, because they are easy to manipulate.”

Gander finally looks up, eyes narrow. ”And the second?”

Vaelith’s lips twitch faintly. Not quite a smile. ”Second monster name Gresvin. Astram’s representative. Tall. Slender. Dressed in black leather, perfectly clean—no markings, no crests. Silver hair. Eyes—one blue, one black. He probably uses dark element.”

Gander leans back in his chair, folding the parchment in front of him with slow precision. He lets the silence linger a moment before speaking.

”I guess the two I fought from Astram’s side didn’t come,” he mutters. ”Would’ve been better if they had. At least I’m familiar with their power.”

Lysaria lifts her head, a curious glint in her glowing eyes. ”Ohh? You fought two Tier 6s and survive? After all, you are not really a combatant type.”

Gander exhales through his nose, a humorless sound. ”Even if I’m not, I can still take on two Tier 6s if they’re around my level. But at that time, I was already injured.”

He flexes his hand absently, the memory still sharp behind his tired expression.

”I had just finished fighting that Astram bastard… injured me pretty badly. If His Majesty hadn’t arrived when I fight those two…” His voice trails off. ”I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

Lysaria smirks faintly, her voice low. ”So that’s why you asked him to revive me.”

Gander doesn’t deny it. ”Of course. With you back, we’re not gambling every fight on one person pulling through.”

She uncrosses her legs, leaning forward slightly, interest sharpening in her tone. ”Together, we can handle four Tier 6’s around our levels… maybe more if they’re not significantly above us.”

He nods. ”Exactly. And if they’re stronger—well, between my curses and your power, we can still stall or cripple them. Even Tier 6s bleed if you know where to cut.”

Varkas said. ”You two planning a duet of death already?”

Lysaria flashes him a grin full of teeth. ”Would you prefer we let you tank a few hits from Tier 6s instead?”

The lycanthrope growls, but it’s more amused than hostile. ”Tch. I’ll pass.”

Varkas stops pacing, his claws tapping lightly against the stone floor. He casts a sidelong glance at the two mages, voice dry with a hint of mock surrender.

”I guess we’ll just leave those two monsters to you two, then.”

Lysaria licks her lips, a spark of anticipation dancing in her eyes. ”Of course. You can focus on the small fries. Try not to get overwhelmed.”

Gorath clicks his tongue, the sound like stone grinding against stone. ”Tch. Don’t lump me in with him. I’d love to fight a Tier 6.”

Gander turns to him with a raised brow, then nods thoughtfully. ”In terms of raw strength, you’re basically as strong as a level 600 Tier 6 anyway.”

----

Valgros capital, royal meeting chamber

The chamber is tense with the weight of hard decisions. Light streams through tall windows etched with royal sigils, illuminating the long oaken table at the center. King Rewalt sits at its head, his fingers steepled before him. Beside him stands Prince Asdri, arms folded, eyes trained on a detailed map of the continent. Around them, commanders and advisors murmur softly, debating contingencies and fallback plans.

The door bursts open.

A servant stumbles in, breath ragged, clothes disheveled. His face is pale, and he trembles as he drops to one knee before the king.

”S-Sire… Your Majesty…!”

King Rewalt’s voice cuts through the room like a blade. ”Speak.”

The servant gulps, words tumbling out in a rush. ”Th-the two… the two monsters! They—They’ve left! They just flew out of the palace a moment ago!”

Asdri steps forward, frowning. ”What? Why?”

”They were… angry,” the servant says, voice barely above a whisper. ”They said they wouldn’t wait any longer. Lord Medoran was pacing like a caged beast, and then he just roared—’I’ve had enough of this delay. If you humans won’t move, I will.’ Then Gresvin muttered something about wasted time and followed him. They flew east. I—I think they’re headed for the city that recently fell… Braenhall.”

Prince Asdri’s eyes narrow. ”They’re going to attack alone?”

The servant nods shakily. ”Yes, my prince. They said they’d ’free it themselves.’ Lord Medoran called it an embarrassment that it’s still in enemy hands.”

King Rewalt’s expression darkens. He leans forward, eyes sharp with unease.

The servant continue quickly, still kneeling. ”Lord Medoran left first, but lord Gresvin followed right after. He didn’t say much… just looked irritated. Like he didn’t care what anyone else thought.”

Prince Asdri places a hand on the table, calm but firm. ”It’s alright, Father. In a way, this works in our favor.”

Rewalt glances at him. ”Explain.”

Asdri gestures toward Braenhall on the map. ”If our enemy has the power to stop two Tier 6 combatants, then we need to know that now. Because up to this point, we still don’t understand the true extent of their strength. The fact that they could summon a level 600 Tier 6 monster is already alarming. Let Medoran and Gresvin test the waters—it’ll give us insight into the enemy’s upper limits.”

Rewalt’s tone sharpens. ”And if the enemy kills them?”

He lifts his head, meeting his father’s gaze directly. ”That rarely happens. Tier 6s don’t die easily. Not on this continent, and not even on the main one. They always have contingencies—items, escape abilities, spatial breaks, blessings. Even if things turn against them, they’ll survive.”

----

Back to Braenhall city.

A sudden pulse ripples through the air—subtle, but unmistakable to those attuned. The flames in the lanterns flicker violently, shadows stretching unnaturally along the walls. Lysaria straightens in her seat, eyes glowing brighter. Gander’s quill stills mid-ink, his head tilting slightly as he exhales slowly.

”They’re coming,” Lysaria says, rising to her feet. Her tone is calm, but her fingers flex with anticipation.

The pressure grows by the second—one searing hot and wild, the other cold, vast, and suffocating. Varkas’s ears twitch. Gorath’s eyes narrow.

Gander finally speaks, voice dry. ”Well. I’m not even surprised.”

Varkas raises a brow. ”What, did you see this coming?”

Gander nods slowly. ”Of course. In their minds, everyone on this continent is an insect. They don’t wait for orders. They don’t negotiate. They destroy obstacles.”

A sound like rolling thunder echoes across the sky—Medoran’s aura burns with unrestrained heat, distorting the very air above Braenhall. In contrast, a wave of cold darkness floods the edges of the city, sending flocks of birds scattering in terror. Gresvin’s presence is quieter but somehow worse—like a void devouring sound and color.

Lysaria’s smile sharpens. ”Fire and darkness. Dramatic.”

Gander’s eyes harden. ”Medoran will be straight forward. But that fellow Gresvin…”

He trails off as the lantern nearest him gutters out, snuffed by some invisible force. From the far corner, Vaelith emerges again, cloak twitching, eyes glowing faintly.

”They’re already above us,” Vaelith says quietly. ”Medoran is coming straight in. Gresvin is... watching.”

Lysaria steps toward the balcony, pushing open the doors. The sky above is painted red and black—two monstrous auras swirling like twin storms. She laughs softly.

”Well,” she says, lifting her hand, magic already crackling along her fingers. ”Let’s go greet our guests.”

Gorath cracks his knuckles. ”Do you think they’re here to talk?”

”No,” Gander replies flatly. ”I think they’re here to remind us who we’re supposed to fear.”

He rises from his seat, grabbing his staff from beside the table.

Lysaria grins. ”Then let’s disappoint them.”